All Apologies
by stilettov
Summary: Jim/Irene. After making a slightly racist comment, Jim is forced to do something he's never done: beg forgiveness. Total PWP.


The report of the lead impacting steel just to the right of his head was so close that a sustained ringing had started in his right ear. Jim, stiff as a board, rotated on the spot to fix his eyes on the origin of the shot. Irene Adler, reclined on the bed they shared, had propped herself up on one elbow, resting her head in her hand. In the other hand was a small snub-nosed revolver.

He watched as her arm tracked, one eye closed as she looked down the sights and aimed. He had no time at all to react as she squeezed off another round, this one missing him by inches on the other side.

"Take it back," she said in a playful tone, grinning. "Jim."

She only ever called him that when she was mocking him, and he'd learned to hate it. He didn't even remember what it was he was supposed to be taking back, had forgotten the argument entirely in the face of the crazy bitch who was unloading his own revolver at him.

"You crazy bitch!" he yelled as he dove for cover behind an armoire. Two more loud bangs and he could feel the impact of the slugs as they thunked into the wood. She only had one shot left, if his tally was correct, but there was every possibility that she had a speed loader stashed somewhere, because his darling girl liked to be prepared. He certainly appreciated it during professional transactions, but he was a bit less keen at the moment, since it imperilled his life, and was putting considerable strain on his affection for her.

"Get the fuck out here, you fucking racist Irish cracker!"

Oh, right. That's why she was mad.

"All I meant-" Jim raised his voice over the ringing in his ears.

"I don't fucking care what you meant."

He wasn't going out there, not while she still had one shot left, but maybe he could feint and get her to waste it. Then tackle her. Then strangle her. That was an excellent plan. He moved to act, but when he leaned out to check her position, the room was empty. The heavy steel door was open, and sunlight flooded in from the fly deck. She had left the pistol sitting on the bed, and had apparently stormed off.

He'd made some joke, about genetics, or...something. About how Irene Adler was the bossiest girlfriend he'd ever had, and he wondered where she'd inherited it from, because...well, he hadn't finished that thought. Still, he'd said enough, while he'd never admit it to a living soul, it was one of the more stupid things he'd ever done in his life, and there was plenty of competition.

She wasn't exactly being careless, leaving the gun, because they both knew the location of every stashed gun, leather sap and knife on the yacht, and it wasn't as though they could put very much distance between each other, despite the size of the vessel. Still, he grabbed it, checked to make sure it still had the one round loaded, and then stuffed it into his back pocket before following after her.

She was nowhere to be found. He stalked the 200 feet from stem to stern and couldn't find a single trace of her. Then one of the guards, a Bulgarian, got his attention.

"You looking for your woman, boss?" he said somewhat humorously, noting the gun in his employer's back pocket. Jim dearly wanted to put the remaining bullet through the taller man's head and then shove him into the cold Atlantic water, but contrary to popular belief, offing the help does not improve service quality levels, so he let it pass. Besides, he was saving the shot for that bitch.

"She there," Miklosk or Malkolvitch or whatever said, pointing towards the bow. "She went swimming."

"Jesus, this time of year?" Jim brushed past the big man and made his way to the bow. Irene, dressed in a devastating black sport bikini, was just climbing up the ladder, saturated from head to foot in salt water. She fixed him with a disdainful stare as she passed him, perfectly unconcerned about the weapon in his hand.

"I don't know how you can swim in this water," he said innocuously.

"Needed to cool off," she said in a neutral tone, dropping into one of the deck chairs. "I've been swimming in this water since I was a kid."

"I didn't mean..."

Her eyes were blank, the kind of blank that she reserved for the people who were marked for death. "Yes, you did."

"Well, I could just shoot you, and then you wouldn't be offended anymore," he suggested in an offhand way, aiming the pistol at her. "See how you like it."

But whatever anger he had awoken in her, it was past caring about any of his threats. She knew him better than anybody, and she wasn't afraid of him, which was a dangerously untenable position for anyone but her. He adored that about her. He adored everything about her. If he was honest with himself, even her taking a shot or four at him got him a little hot under the collar.

"I'm sorry," he said, a phrase that felt so foreign in his mouth, it was like speaking another language.

"I bet you are," she said bitterly. "Think you own me, bitch?"

"I said I'm sorry."

She stood up suddenly, and took a step towards him, and he retreated. She was an enraged black Amazon and he thought he might have to shoot her now, since she looked fit to eat him alive.

"Say that again, James Moriarty," she said in a deceptively calm voice. "And you will be sorry."

He considered her, measured her. There was a cool breeze, but she wasn't shivering. Her anger was tangible, even a few feet away, burning hot. He could understand the impulse to want to jump into cold water. He wondered if her skin felt hot, wanted to reach out and touch her, except that he didn't really want to risk his hand.

How to best convey his contrition? Well, the gun wasn't going to help, so he turned and flung it into the water. She looked at him with eyes narrowed, cocking one hip and planting her hand on it. The other she turned into the light, and examined her fingernails.

"Darling," Jim said softly. She ignored him, so he decided to proceed with his plan.

He did something he had never, ever done before, something he was loathe to do in front of his underlings, but it had to be done. They would understand, he supposed. They had women, too, lovers, mistresses. We're not all made of stone, he reflected. Passion is a thing we share, even if it's just as often as not for killing and torturing people.

He went down his knees, and looked up at her haughty face. She seemed unimpressed, but as he went down and pressed his lips to each of her shapely brown feet in turn, he could almost feel some of the angry tension leaving her, and being replaced by a different sort of tension.

"Stop it," she said, sounding a little embarrassed.

"I don't think I own you, Irene," Jim said as he kissed her ankle, very, very gently. "But you own me. Everything I am is yours. You are-" he paused, nuzzling his face against her wet calf- "mistress of every part of me."

She bit her lip, and shivered once, looking down at him, and he could see the deep, intrinsic vulnerability that had fuelled that anger. "Promise?"

Jim nodded, and then turned his face into her thigh and continued his trek upwards, but she put paid to that by seizing him by his short cropped hair. Putting two hands on his chest, she pounced on him, sending him sprawling on his back, the breath knocked out of him. He didn't get a chance to take a breath, though, because she kissed him, hard, her hand around his throat. When she finally came away, he was dizzy from lack of oxygen, but hard as rock. She straddled him, and he reached for her, but she pinned his hands back.

"Ah. I'm mistress, remember?"

Biting his lip, he nodded. Then, out of nowhere, the palm of her hand impacted the side of his face hard enough to cause his head to snap to the side. He opened his mouth to register his amazement with a very colourful death threat, but the expression on her face stopped him cold. The ruthless, delighted little-girl-destroying- butterflies glee on her face was far, far more unsettling than any of the deadly airs she'd been putting on just a few minutes ago. He hardly had time to decide how he felt about it when she raised the hand again, and this time laid into the other side of his face with the back of it, sharp little knuckles bruising deep into his flesh.

"That was for being rude," she said, and there was just a faint sing-song in her voice. It wasn't affected. It was slightly unhinged.

_It sounds like me. Is that what she's doing? Being me?_

His face stung, and throbbed. It would smart, and certainly bruise, and he would have to wear it in penitence for his very thoughtless and tasteless remark. Forget common sense, the first lackey to look sideways at him was going to have his eyes cauterized.

"Are you sorry now?" she intoned, stroking his face with her cruel little fingers. "James?"

"Very, very, sorry," he rasped. "Christ, Irene."

She raised a threatening hand again.

"Mistress," he amended quickly.

"Better."

"Does it hurt, baby?" she murmured in a would-be soothing voice. "Does this hurt?"

The hand that had fluttered down and drawn the string on his shorts did not hurt. Quite the contrary, though he was feeling rather apprehensive now. Possibly it would have been wiser just to shoot her and then go through all the nasty lonely feelings for a few weeks. Or possibly...

The thought was never completed. She had loosed him from his shorts and was now lightly running her fingers along his super-sensitive skin. He was about to open his mouth when she shimmied down like a serpent and pressed a kiss right on this tip of his cock. Then she turned her head up, watched him with those insolent, dangerous eyes, unsheathed her clever tongue and lashed him one good lick right along the underside of the shaft.

He bucked, his spine bending in the middle, the sensation just enough to make him ache in the pit of his abdomen. "Irene..."

She licked the nail of her middle finger, curled that finger back, then flicked it right against the head of his penis, and he gave a violent twitch, fingernails scrabbling for hold on the gritty deck, because otherwise he was going to try to strangle her with them. Stinging pain rattled through him.

He hissed through his teeth, not trusting himself to speak.

"Poor baby," she simpered, then leaned down to kiss it better. Then she sucked him into her mouth, and he forgot about anything else. He did care that the guards were a half a dozen yards away, smoking cigarettes and trying, impossibly, ignore the goings-on behind them. That didn't matter at all, what mattered was that she didn't stop, didn't stop, _don't stop, please..._

She paused, considered him, nuzzling her cheek against him. He could feel himself going rigid and tight, every muscle bunching up in frustration as she teased him ruthlessly, that wide, hungry smile on her face just sending frissons of rage through him.

"Please." He hated the weakness in his voice, but if she continued this torture, he'd break in half. "Hit me...kill me, I don't care, just...please..."

"You don't care?" She exhaled the words, breathing lightly on him, and the tiniest whimper escaped him.

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, mistress."

Oh, blissful oblivion. Her throat convulsing around him, the fingers of one hand describing circles around his navel, the other cupping him, rolling him in her palm. He didn't dare reach to grasp her hair as he would have normally done, but seized the railing and held on, letting out a gasping "uh" in two broken syllables as he came, hard, body twitching and jerking.

She drank him down, sucked him dry, then leaned up and licked her lips, still on her hands and knees. The expression on her face was indescribable, just pure, intoxicated control. She wasn't Eve, he thought stupidly, his pleasure-fogged mind looping back to primary school Catechism. She was the snake.

"What do we say?" she purred.

Oh, no he'd had enough of that. He had fangs, too. He sat up and seized her, pulling her into his lap. She made a noise of protest that wasn't really a noise of protest, more of a playful squeak, but she knew the game was up. She'd punished him enough. It was only fair that she accept his apology.

"Darling," he said into her neck as he kissed it, groaning slightly as her legs circled him, as she took him into her.

"Mm," she purred.

"Lover. Queen of my heart," he continued, sucking little marks on her flesh, leaving bruises, because despite her earlier indignation, she was his and everyone should know it. He was hers. Implicitly. "Cruel mistress."

She laughed out loud at that, that delightful dark chuckle that he so adored, that he dined on day and night, that he would bottle up and inject, powder and snort in lines, if it were possible. Her nails put tracks down his back, laying new ones over the old ones, and he shuddered at the delicious pain. Bits of Jim under her fingernails. The thought made him smile as he tilted her on to her back, not caring that the painted grit surface of the deck would scratch her skin. He'd kiss it better later. Right now, he just wanted to see the want in her face. To watch her surrender, become his again.

"Goddess," he said, and she giggled again. "Vengeful goddess. Won't you please forgive me?"

"Maybe," she said, but it was on a forced breath.

Jim pressed in a little harder to her, watching her eyes go just a little glazed, a little dead. He sustained the moment, before dipping his middle finger in his mouth and flicking it against her clit. As expected, she jerked, let out a little bark of pain that turned into a deep, gasping moan as he applied his thumb, just so. Her body seized, eyes tearing up, and she surrendered to it, holding fast to him as repeated waves of sensation travelled through her. He came, too, a weaker orgasm than before, but the pleasure was doubled just by seeing the look on her face, and feeling her from the inside as her spasms rocked through her as she tightened internally, and released in rapid succession. It felt absolutely incredible, as it always did, but especially riding the current of the earlier near death experience. A little gunplay never hurt anyone, except when it did, and he'd deserved it, really.

"I don't own you," he said quietly, one finger tracing over her breast, above her heart. "But you're still mine."

He bent down and pressed a kiss to the place over her heart, then leaned up to kiss her parted lips, interrupting her attempts to catch her breath. He got his feet under him and offered his hand. She gripped it, and he pulled her to her feet, noticing with some satisfaction, she did have abrasions marking up her lovely back.

Once upright, she didn't spare him a look as she turned and sauntered back towards the stateroom. The cold mask was back in place, the reins back in her hands. Jim didn't really mind. He paused only to inform the Bulgarian to strike off anything left on today's agenda. He had more apologising to do.


End file.
